


Masks

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon - Anime, Dead Marco Bott, Gen, I can't believe 'Dead Marco Bott' is a common tag, Implied Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein, M/M, Quadruple Drabble, early morning misery, i don't know where this came from, jean and marco: life ruiners, jeanmarco, jesus christ stop ruining my life SNK, new otps, why do I always choose these tragic pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1294846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You see his face everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masks

**Author's Note:**

> First jeanmarco fic! I'm aware that what happens to our dearly departed Marco in the manga is way more graphic, but since I haven't read it yet, I'm going off the anime.

You see his face everywhere—but not the one you remember—in the twisted knots of trees, the swirl of muddy rainwater, even in the expressions of Titans. Shapes that could be features—a trick of the eye in your periphery—like masks. 

You have nightmares about Marco’s face after death, the ‘o’ of his mouth, a maw of burned teeth, hollow eyes.

You remember, as a child, seeing a masquerade ball inside the innermost wall. You dream about partygoers inside layers of protective stone, hidden under masks. In the dream, Marco is there somewhere, too. You try to find him. The dream changes, and suddenly you’re no longer a child. You’re wearing a jacket with a unicorn on it, and you’re lost in a sea of strange, twisted features, masks with hollow eyes.

You call his name, but he doesn’t answer. You _know_ he’s there—he has to be. You both graduated at the top of your class, and you were together. You wouldn’t have to die. You’d be protected from death. You wouldn’t be eaten, swallowed, or maimed.

And then you know that Marco isn’t there, because Marco was never trying to live. Not in the way you were. It’s not that he _wanted_ to die, but he wasn’t afraid to.

When you first wake up, it’s always the same—reaching across the bed in a half-sleep, your hand snapping shut as you grab at the air. Nothing.

And you put both hands over your face, rough palms and fingers hiding your cheeks, eyes, nose, chin. You grit your teeth and you think that somewhere, Marco is smiling the way you remember him—unafraid and sincere, so terribly, achingly sincere. 

You leave your hands over your face to hide your shame as you weep. You keep your eyes closed, searching for the visual in your memory, and not just the thought of his presence. 

You’re afraid of forgetting what he looks like every time you see those mask-like faces—tree knots for eyes; the strange, psuedo-smiles of Titans with extra teeth showing through their jaw lines; swirls of mud in just the right arrangement to be uncanny.

You’re slowly forgetting his face—his real face, dashed with a peppering of freckles, an easy smile—and so you roll onto your side to at least keep the thought of him close, and let the tears go behind your hands.


End file.
